


Stronger Spirits

by HenryMercury



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Girls' Night, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:13:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“...and then he said, and I quote, <i>A lot of us lost respect for Fury when he picked you as his second. If he needed eye candy around, he could at least have picked Romanoff<i></i></i>,” Maria finishes, then tosses back another shot of the José she’s been working her way through.<br/> <br/>Natasha snorts and drains her own glass of vodka, refilling it as she says, “that boy could not be punching further above his weight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda inspired by this post http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com/post/84323354290/thats-funny-ill-tell-her-you-said-that

“...and then he said, and I quote, _A lot of us lost respect for Fury when he picked you as his second. If he needed eye candy around, he could at least have picked Romanoff_ ,” Maria finishes, then tosses back another shot of the José she’s been working her way through.

Natasha snorts and drains her own glass of vodka, refilling it as she says, “that boy could not be punching further above his weight.”

“He killed Agent Hand,” May reminds them tersely. Natasha knows how much fun it isn’t talking about mistakes like Grant Ward.

“I can’t believe you fucked that guy,” says Clint, because he’s the only one stupid enough not to keep his mouth shut.

“You want to talk about ill-considered sexual encounters, Clint, and Melinda’s not going to be the sorry one, let me tell you,” Natasha shuts him up.

She, Hill and May are sitting at a little round table in the bar they broke into—not at all a difficult exercise—and steadily working through the spirits they found there. They’ll leave an appropriately-sized wad of cash behind the bar when they’re done, as they always do unless they know the place’s owner is a dick. Clint, who has become a part of their girls’ nights for reasons entirely unknown, usually starts the night off at the table with them, fails to check his alcohol intake and ends up on the floor, then crawls drunkenly up to the highest perch he can find and busies himself with keeping watch, not that any of them are relying on him by that point.

“Do we know for sure that’s what happened?” Hill returns to May’s earlier point about Victoria.

“We don’t have a body, but it all adds up,” says May, swallowing down her whisky as though it’s as sweet and smooth as apple juice. Natasha’s known May for some time now and their mutual respect has never needed words to define it. It’s nice to sit and silently finish a bottle of hard liquor with someone and not have to talk about all the shit that’s brought you both to the point you’re at. Natasha’s only really found that kind of camaraderie with Clint before; Hill is good too, but she tends to be talkative. Sometimes the conversation is nice; other times it’s just not what Natasha needs.

“For the record, Maria,” she turns to Hill, “no Agent worth so much as their weight in shit had a good reason to doubt Fury appointing you.”

Hill smiles, like she knows what Natasha’s doing, trying to make her feel a little less down about SHIELD going up in flames. It rocked Natasha’s worldview more than a little, but it hit Hill on a different level; Natasha’s investment in the organisation was in the depths of it, and while she had to blow her covers to kickstart the demolition process, there are still those essential few people she knows she can trust. It’s not comfortable, but having to remake herself is hardly an unfamiliar experience either. Hill’s always been invested in the management, the protocol, the hierarchy, and none of those things were left when SHIELD collapsed.

“How’s working for Stark going?” she ask.

Hill laughs. “You’re one of the few agents who doesn’t _need_ to wonder what working for Stark is like.”

Natasha shrugs, conceding that point. “I was undercover, though. And the circumstances were... somewhat exceptional.”

“It’s Stark,” Hill sighs, but Natasha can sense grudging affection there, the kind Stark instills in people so well, “the circumstances are always exceptional.”

“You could come back, you know,” May offers. “Help Coulson build the new SHIELD.”

Hill shrugs. “I’ll think about it when and if Coulson asks me to come on board.”

“He will.” That much is obvious; Hill and Coulson loved and needed SHIELD in very similar ways, and they’ll want each other’s support if they’re going to make a new organisation like it.

“What about you, Natasha?”

“I’ll be around.”

“And Clint?”

“Clint goes where he goes, but he always comes back to where Coulson is,” Natasha smiles. The time between New York and finding out that Phil was, in fact, alive, was the worst she’s ever seen Clint, still suffering after Loki’s manipulation _and_ reeling from the death of such a close friend and mentor.

“He always comes back to you, too,” Hill says, as though concerned that Natasha’s feeling lonely. But loneliness isn’t what troubles Natasha; aimlessness is.

“I’m right here, you know,” Clint says, slurring and sounding so out of it that the three women all laugh.

“Are you sure about that?” asks May, deadpan as always, but with a small smirk twitching at the edge of her mouth. Natasha can feel her own expression doing much the same thing.

“Y’know what, Nat, I don’t know why I ever come to these things. All your friends do is bully me.”

“They’re your friends too.”

Clint huffs. “I’m gonna talk to Coulson instead,” he says, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. “At least when he makes fun of me it’s not as bad, because he still has that earnest vibe about him—” Coulson must answer the phone, then, because Clint’s greeting him cheerfully.

May’s phone buzzes on the table about a minute later. She answers it.

“Yes, Phil,” she says, seriously. “Yes, he’s here. About a bottle and a half of various things, sir. Yes, Romanoff’s already confiscated the bow.”

“He put me on hold!” Clint is complaining from up in his corner. “Even Coulson’s being a—oh hey, you’re back, hi.”

Coulson puts up with Clint’s drunken rambling for a very admirable forty minutes, while the others finish their drinks. Hill giggles more and more until May sneaks the tequila bottle out of her reach—and Hill, even drunk, is sensible enough not to question it. May’s expression grows less taut until she’s actually smiling, and Natasha tells the story about the Brazilian model and the British physics professor she met while passing through Thailand just to see May give in to a proper laugh.

Natasha switches her vodka for water when she finds herself tempted to tell them all how glad she is that not _everything_ SHIELD was is gone, that she still has as much of a family here as she’s ever had. She has to keep some things to herself.

That said, she’s not sure it’s that much of a secret anymore.


End file.
